


The Stranger Waits

by firedew



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Despair, Explicit Language, F/M, Major Illness, Physical Abuse, Platonic Romance, Supernatural Elements, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1423822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firedew/pseuds/firedew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa falls deathly ill while still a prisoner of the Lannisters. Despairing, she sees it as her way out. But can she still find a reason to live? Set during ACOK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

“Fire … I’m on fire.” Panting with every breath, Sansa frantically groped toward … something. What was it? She no longer remembered, yet she continued to moan. Sweat coalesced into perfect, hot beads along her forehead, neck, and along the refined hollow between her bosom, her nightshift soaked to the smallest thread. The bed linens were a loss, in no better condition than the flimsy garment that barely protected her modesty but was all that she could stand. Squirming in her bed against the soft hands that held her down, every movement rewarded with exhaustion and agony, Sansa burned.

“Rest now, milady. Shh. Rest. Rest. The maester is coming.”

“No ... no … I don’t want … don’t want to ...”

A wet cloth was draped over her forehead and moved swiftly to spread the cooling liquid over her cheeks and neck while Shae tried to soothe her, but there was no disguising the worry in her tone. Sansa was beyond sense. Her mind and body raging with fever, she sought out the man standing at the entrance to her bedchamber. Sometimes shrouded in white and sometimes not, he was otherwise a constant. He stood there watching her, never moving, never speaking, for … days now? A week? Or had it only been hours? A black figure surrounded by darkness and candlelight that absorbed them both. No voice. No face. Every face. At once every man she had ever known and a stranger. “Take me,” she said in gasping, breathless supplication. She knew his name; he had to hear her. “Take me. Please, take me.” _Gods, please take me._

“No, no, milady. You must not say such things,” Shae said urgently, leaning over Sansa as her vision began to swim. Sansa’s eyelids fluttered as the abyss beckoned. Her handmaiden shook her. “Lady Sansa, you must stay awake.”

“What did she say?” An immature, frightened voice carried across the bed. Another maidservant perhaps. Sansa was past caring. Reeling, she flailed uselessly against Shae’s sure grip.

“Let me go …” She again sought out her silent visitor. “Please, I have nothing left. Take pity and let me die.”

“Who is she talking to?”

“Never you mind, you idiot child,” Shae snapped, the alluring lilt of her accent beautiful despite her ire. “I need you to run and fetch the maester. You pull that wrinkled old pig off whatever whore he’s fucking and tell him Lady Sansa is very ill and needs him immediately. Then you go to the kitchen, get more water and ice. Bring it back here.”

“Ice?”

“As much as they’ll allow, now hurry!” Shae tugged on Sansa’s arms and alternately gripped her sides, legs, and back in an effort to get her up. Even as her feet met the cold stone floor, pain shot across Sansa’s ribs at her desperate maneuvering. She moaned, short and weak, her head lolling backward. “I am sorry, milady, but we need to get you to the bath.”

A small, pathetic noise escaped her lips just as she went utterly limp. Sansa fell forward, careening toward the floor with only Shae there to stop her descent. The world melted away to the sound of Shae’s screams for help.

The next thing Sansa knew she was being hauled up into powerful arms. Unabated heat pressed in on her and oblivion was a taste of bliss that she was loathe to part from. _The Stranger has decided to carry me away from here. Finally._  

“Seven hells, you’re burning up, girl.”

He reeked of stale wine and his voice was as harsh as stone grating against stone, but Sansa felt comfort tucked inside his arms, held as though she weighed nothing. This was the safest place she could be. No one could touch her now that death had come to claim her.

“What in hells happened?”

Her legs swung like pendulums, dangling over his forearms as he hurriedly carried her across her room. Sansa’s bleary eyes peered over his shoulder, encased in armor. The grim faceless form remained where it was. _Does he know he’s left his shadow behind?_

“She said she was feeling poorly this morning, so she kept to her bed. I checked in on her around midday and brought her a meal, but when I came again a little while ago, she was already like this,” Shae said quickly, trotting after them.

“Where the fuck is Pycelle?” The bald anger in his voice terrified Sansa to her core, but she only burrowed deeper into his grasp. She was safe. Deep down, she knew she was safe.

“I sent word earlier, but he has yet to come see her.” He came to a stop and Sansa felt Shae’s hands grasping at her once again. “Come, milady, we’ve got to get you cooled off.”

Sansa didn’t respond until he started to lower her to the ground. “No … no, no … no, no, no …” she pleaded in a barely coherent stream, using what little strength at her disposal to cling to his neck. “Don’t make me stay. Not here. Don’t make me stay. Please. It’s so hot …”

“Easy, girl,” he said.

Raving and withering beneath the pulsing heat, she found his eyes, dark slates of grey trained solely on her face. “You know … don’t you?” Her hand gently touched his terrible scars, lightly tracing the ripples of burnt skin. She was almost surprised to find them as real flesh underneath her fingertips. “So hot …”

Her grisly savior stood motionless for protracted instant, apparently stunned, and then with a twisted hate-filled grimace, he caught her wrist and shoved it away. Forgetting any delicacy, he plopped her into the bath with Shae fumbling to catch her.

Sansa cried out, a shriek that echoed off stone. Lying inside the familiar pool, empty though it was, she instinctively curled in on herself, though that only made the pain worse. Another whine tore from her throat.

“What is wrong with you?” Shae shouted.

Then, in a rush, she was savagely pinned against the wall opposite where Sansa lay, the man’s hand at her neck. “Watch your tone, wench, or I’ll see to it the king hears about how you neglected your duties. How you left his betrothed alone as she got sicker and sicker. Imagine how he’d repay your fine service.”

“Empty threats don’t frighten me, Dog. You’d sooner slit my throat yourself.”

The sound he made was more like a hiss than a laugh. “Aye, that I would. Slight creature like yourself wouldn’t even slow the blade.”

“Get on with it then,” she said. “Kill me or allow me to help her.”

The man tossed a callous glance over his shoulder at Sansa. She bit her lip, starting to shake all over, out of control. _Stop. It’s only supposed to be me. Just me. Don’t hurt her._

The room was filled with only breath and silence.

“Help her, then.”

Moments later, a basin’s worth of water poured over Sansa’s shuddering limbs and pooled beneath her. She bit back another scream as the shock of the cold against her skin caused her trembling to double. Water splashed over every part of her body, washing away the pasty feel of sweat. Sansa lifted her tired eyes to see him standing over her, an implacable fortress of ever-breeding hatred, though the look he gave her was queerly the opposite. Almost soft, like a solitary flake of ash floating away from a bonfire.

“I didn’t mean to hurt the girl.”

Staying close, Shae didn’t look up. Her mouth pulled tight, she merely continued dutifully splashing and spreading the chilled water over her. “It is not a hard thing to do. I can scarcely keep from hurting her myself.”

Then, with a gentle whisper, Shae asked Sansa to lie still. As Sansa’s breaths came and went in arduous puffs, her handmaiden proceeded to pull sopping tendrils of her long auburn hair away from her shoulders and back. Completely sodden, her thin shift was glued to her like a second skin, the pale color almost translucent in the water. There could be little of Sansa left to the imagination, yet the man’s eyes did not wander as so many men’s often did—his as well, she dimly recalled. His turbulent gaze looked only to the collage of dark purple and black bruises all over her back and side. “The latest gifts from our beloved King, courtesy of Ser Meryn. They have not yet had a chance to mend. I thought ...” Shae looked downcast. “I thought she was pretending to be ill, so she would not have to face the king again so soon.”

“You’d best guard your tongue, wench. A charge of treason will get you more than my knife, and the walls have ears.”

“Then the walls have heard her screams as often as I. More. They should have eyes as well, so as to see what your illustrious king has wrought on a girl with no one to protect her,” she said. “They teach highborn ladies from the beginning to sing, to dance, to sew, to bow to their lord husband’s whim with a blush and a smile … but they do not train them for this. If it were me in her place, I might want to die, too.”

Steam rose from Sansa’s body as water sloshed over her again, her bloodshot eyes locked in a hypnotic stare at the figure looming over her. She couldn’t bear Shae’s pity, but him … he knew … he knew. She couldn’t remember his name, wasn’t sure if he were real or another nightmare come to taunt and humiliate her, but she remembered him. He was coarse, bitter, and cruel, but he knew what she wanted, had once longed for release as much—likely more—than she. While his expression was steeped in darkness and growing darker by the second, her lips began to whisper to him, manic and unrelenting, repeating over and over and over prayers no septa had ever taught her. All of them consisted of one word.

Please.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa woke to the sound of voices, several of them, loud and biting enough to penetrate the dizzying fog that had held her bound. She battled to lift her eyelids, but they behaved as if tied down. Her mouth was parched, stone dry. She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue felt thick and impossible to move. She was abed, she realized, recognizing the plush cushion of her featherbed. She finally managed to crack her eyes open enough to see it as well. Thin blankets were carefully layered over her, the heat having ebbed for the moment. She still felt it, though. Fever churned in her belly, writhed in her legs, was being stoked somewhere down deep.

The shadow still watched her from her chamber door, its presence unmoved, unchanged, and uncaring of the lions circling just beyond.

The door to Sansa’s chamber was wide open. Outside, she saw the Hand of the King, Tyrion Lannister with Grand Maester Pycelle, the golden profile of the queen and her son, her tormentor and husband-to-be. Shae waited on the fringes, a witness to be questioned as needed, no doubt. And placed between them and her, all of them were dwarfed by the imposing figure of the Hound. With his back to her, his great sword sheathed behind him, his attention was to his masters. He couldn’t know what shared the entry with him only a hair’s breadth away. The dark, austere presence easily matched Sandor Clegane’s size and forbidding manner, also mimicking the strange essence of peace in destruction that the Hound so blatantly carried with him.

They might have been longtime companions, Sansa thought to herself with an inward and mirthless air, and the unexpected truth of it struck her. Her weary musings were far closer to reality than she once could have conceived. Of course, the days of her believing in the tales of gallant knights and fair maidens were long gone, shattered on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor when they took her father’s head and trodden on every day since until they were wisps of memory, ground into nothing until she was nothing, too. Just a stupid girl who betrayed the father she loved to those who now held her captive, abandoned by her mother and brother, and left as meat for the lions. A useless creature with only misery to look forward to. A shadow with no more substance than the thing watching her. What was the point of all those silly dreams now?

Sansa vaguely recalled pleading with the Hound to kill her. She wished that he had. At least it would have been quick.

“To my knowledge, it is not known to be contagious.” In the corridor, Grand Maester Pycelle seemed to cower before them. A man of his age and experience should have some pride. Sansa regarded him with much the same disdain as the queen.

“Nevertheless, there is no reason to take chances.” The queen turned to Shae. “See to it that her clothing and linens are burned. They are replaceable enough.”

Lord Tyrion nodded his approval. “For once, sweet sister, you have the right of it. With the Young Wolf on the prowl and Stannis’ armies pointed in our direction, the last thing we need is a rash of disease spreading throughout the city. But that does leave us with the problem of tracking down where she might have contracted the illness in the first place.”

“Gorgia fever is not often found in Westeros,” Pycelle said. “It is more common across the Narrow Sea.”

“Then how do you explain her catching it? Do you mean to tell me my future bride has been consorting with spies from the East?” Joffrey sneered, puffed up and blustering in his own self-importance. “Surely, you give Sansa too much credit. She’s not half clever enough to try something like that.”

Lord Tyrion rolled his eyes. “I’m sure the girl was simply accosted by Braavosi pirates. There is, after all, a lucrative market for beautiful maids across the sea. Perhaps they thought to sell her as a bedslave to a rich dupe for the price of a king’s wrath. Then again, perhaps they found the castle gates, the army of Goldcloaks, and his Highness’ Kingsguard too much trouble to see to for one little girl.”

“That is quite enough,” Cersei said. Meanwhile, Joffrey’s expression had turned to acid. “The hour grows late and I’ve not the stomach for your sarcasm.”

“Given how much you’ve had to drink, dear sister, it is a miracle you still have legs to stand on. I would think you’d be grateful for your stomach, poorly though it may be.” The queen looked fit to claw his eyes out. Sansa didn’t care and neither did the dwarf, it seemed. “Hound, I believe you escorted the King and his party to the marketplace three days ago?”

“Aye.” Though he was disinterested at best, the Hound’s voice rumbled, mighty in comparison to the rest.

“And I presume there were traders from Pentos there? Lys and Braavos as well?”

“Aye, all of them eager enough to try and tempt a few coins from the King’s purse.”

“And the lady?”

The Hound tipped his head. “Her, too.”

“It sounds as if the Lady Sansa might have been shown something carrying the sickness. A blanket, a dress, or whatever it is you women do so love to buy when the mood strikes you,” Lord Tyrion said with a snide grin especially for the queen. “Well, Pycelle? Does that seem a tad more plausible than spies and pirates?”

The old man nodded quickly. “That would account for it, my Lord.”

“I’ll bet it was the fat one from Lys, the one with the gold teeth,” Joffrey said with twisted glee. He laughed, a sniveling sound that Sansa had come to revile and fear in equal measure. A shiver ran down her spine. If Sansa wasn’t very much mistaken, there would be a fire in the marketplace to match her linens tomorrow—tonight, if Joffrey was feeling impatient—with the merchant and his gold teeth as kindling. Then, once the coals died, the smallfolk outside would be climbing over each other to claim the remains of his teeth. The thought of such ugliness turned Sansa’s stomach. The taste of bile coated the back of her mouth.

“Well, now that that’s settled, I am going to bed,” the queen said sourly. She stared down her nose at Pycelle. “You will keep me informed, I expect?”

“Of course, my Queen,” he said. “But … there is something I must tell you before you take your leave.”

She sighed. “What is it?”

“While,” he began anxiously, “While gorgia fever is not known to be contagious, it …”

“What is it?” Joffrey demanded wearing a scowl, as impatient as his mother.

“It … is quite often fatal, your Highness.”

The pronouncement was met with a chorus of blank stares almost as hollow as Sansa’s heart. It was a curious thing to hear you weren’t expected to survive. One would think there would be tears, a show of sadness, a modicum of grief. But there was none of that, not from them or from herself. To be freed from marrying Joffrey, being forced to share his bed, to bear his children, from living with a never ending chasm in the pit of her stomach knowing that the slightest word or a wrong look would bring her a beating—Sansa only felt relief.

“It pains me to say it, but there is little I can do for the girl,” Pycelle continued. “I can try to keep the fever under control, but it is resistant to medicines.”

Sansa closed her eyes, the scorching evidence of his statement flaring again within her veins. She recognized the sluggish pull of milk of the poppy in her veins, to dull the pain of her injuries like as not. But whether her temporary respite from the fires was Pycelle’s doing or more Shae’s ice bath, she couldn’t be sure. She only knew it would not be long before it overtook her once again. Searing heat would be her end and she welcomed it.

“You are aware that, in the event Lady Sansa dies, Robb Stark will execute my brother.”

When Sansa looked again, Lord Tyrion was the only one whose face had pulled into a mask of concern. For the Kingslayer, naturally. Sansa’s only value in this world was as a bargaining chip. A pitiful one at that. Her brother would not come to terms for her release, and after what she done to her father, it made no matter. She was no better than a traitor.

Abiding sadness finally crawled up from the depths of her soul when she told herself she wasn’t fit to be called sister or daughter anymore, that her mother would never look at her again with anything but hatred in her eyes. She wasn’t fit to carry the proud name of Stark. What would her father say if he could see her now?

A quiet whimper escaped her lips as she buried her head in her pillow and blocked out everyone else. It didn’t matter if they heard her; they would assume it was the moaning of a sick girl, and who was there to care anyway? When had her tears ever mattered here?

_They matter to Joffrey. He always says I’m so pretty when I scream._

Sansa’s gaze wandered to the omnipresent shadow and her lips began to move again in whispered prayers. “Let me pass this world as I came in, small and worthy of your grace. Find my tasks finished, find me a place …” she choked down a developing lump in her throat, “ … near my father’s hallowed halls, so I may walk with my ancestors. Let the sun set and my eyes close on your mercy. Let me pass this world as I came in, small and worthy of your grace. Find my tasks finished, find me a place near my father’s hallowed halls, so I may walk with my ancestors. Let the sun set and my eyes close on your mercy. Let me pass this world …” she repeated over and over.

Soon, they left with Tyrion’s last orders to Pycelle still hanging in the air. “Do everything you can to save her.”

In the midst of her hushed pleas, Sansa became aware she was not yet alone. Pycelle was ordering Shae to fetch fresh linens, and this and that and more that would do her little to no good, though it would please the Lannisters.

And, on the threshold, the Hound had stayed behind.

He faced her now, as mute and black as the mysterious presence beside him. Her temperature already climbing out of control, a sweltering flush bloomed beneath her skin as their eyes met.

He wasn’t as scary as she’d once thought. His mutilated face had ceased to shock her some time ago. His rage, his stare had frightened her more than his scars ever did. But that no longer scared her either.

He said nothing and neither did she.

Then, he turned and walked away.

It was more than she expected, and that was the least expected thing of all.

Had she had any tears, she would have cried heavy racking sobs for as long as she had breath. Instead, Sansa returned to her prayers.

Soon enough, they dissolved into flames.


	3. Chapter 3

The following days bled into one another, each one having less meaning than the one before. Seconds lasted hours, the hours minutes, minutes took days. Sansa was unconscious much of the time, and when she wasn’t, she was half out of her mind. Moments when she was coherent were few and fleeting, but they were enough for her to recall the shrill sound of her own voice screaming for her father, her mother, her brothers, even her little sister. She remembered servants holding her down as she shouted madly, cursing the shadow no one could see but her. “Why do you wait? I’m here. I am ready! All you have to do is take me! Why do you keep me here? What more do you want of me?”

Once, maybe twice, the faceless shadow became solid. She only remembered his eyes, smoldering, the color of flint and harder than steel. He towered over her, too massive to be real, too intimidating to ever confide in, but to this face, to him, Sansa could only whisper tearfully, helplessly, “Please … please … I’ll do anything. Just please … make it stop.” Then those same eyes narrowed in undisguised rancor and disappeared as surely as if he had never been there at all.

Swallowed up in the furnace, Sansa remembered the faces of her handmaidens, ripe with knowing and dread, fearful she had finally and permanently cracked. Maybe she had. Maybe he hadn’t been there. Maybe Bethy, the chambermaid, hadn’t been humming the melody of _Florian and Jonquil_ under her breath all day. Maybe Lady hadn’t been curled up at the foot of her bed last night.

Her body met frigid water several times more after that first time. They gave her milk of the poppy for pain and to help her sleep, coriander and another foul tasting concoction to further dampen the fever. Biscuits and the like had quickly turned to boulders in her stomach. She was unable to hold them down, so broth was poured down her throat along with tea fortified with honey, and as the days trudged along, it became glaringly apparent it wouldn’t be enough to sustain her. Sansa grew thinner and thinner.

“What are her chances?” Lord Tyrion had asked one day as Shae alone hovered over her.

The dark-haired woman had looked boldly toward the King’s Hand, more familiar than a servant should dare. “Where there is no will, there is none. She does not fight it. She welcomes it.”

He made a noise of disbelief. “There are any number of windows and balconies in the Red Keep she could have thrown herself off of and saved us all a lot of time. Why wait if she’s so keen to die?”

“Do not presume to know what is in a woman’s heart, my lord. You never know what you may find.”

The dwarf’s shrewd expression echoed her own. “Sound advice.”

Exhausted, Sansa didn’t hear another word, but as the attempts to keep her alive remained as vigorous and unrelenting as ever, it was obvious Lord Tyrion was wagering her despair would be eclipsed by the basic instinct to keep breathing. That alone wasn’t enough for Sansa anymore. She had no fight left, no reason to keep going. The desire had been stripped, cut, whipped, and beaten out of her over time. After all, what was her life worth in a hostile world where she wasn’t wanted?

Eventually, she stopped taking food altogether. Food was brought at every mealtime without fail, and each time Shae, Pycelle, and the others tried to cajole and manipulate her into eating. It was a fruitless exercise. She was typically far beyond hearing them, and even when she did, the deadly heat had left her so frail and often times confused she no longer possessed the wherewithal to respond. She couldn’t speak, so from then on, each bout of fever was endured in unsettling quietude. Her handmaidens fluttered about her while her gaze stayed eerily fixed on her eternal visitor, her body trembling under the strain.

Then, one day, something changed. There was less fussing. No one spoke above a whisper. Her bed was outfitted with softer blankets and extra pillows strategically placed to support her hips and back. Drapes covered the windows. The fire in the hearth and candlelight alone lit her chamber. Early that evening, voices once more slithered in from outside her door to rouse her.

“What do you mean she won’t eat?” Joffrey demanded. The King, flanked by Ser Meryn Trant and the Hound, his Hand, the queen, the Grand Maester—they buzzed around her like flies over a corpse. Why couldn’t they simply leave her be?

“There are a great many other factors to consider, your Highness, but the fact remains: the Lady Sansa’s time draws near,” Pycelle said, his aged countenance almost as pale and drawn as Sansa’s had become.

Upon hearing the maester’s declaration, the Hound’s intense gaze wandered toward her. Then, unnoticed by anyone else, his face fell. As Sansa’s lungs worked exhaustively to simply move up and down, his brow furrowed, and for an instant all his scorn and pent up malice seemed to drain out of him.

 _I must be a sorry sight indeed_ , she thought, feeling separate and withdrawn from it all, not at all the preening peacock Arya had often accused her of being. _Arya … little Arya Underfoot. That was lifetimes ago. Hers and mine._

The storm clouds returned quickly, however, and the King’s Hound had better things to do than gawk.

“I don’t know how much longer she will last like this. It could be a matter of days or possibly …”

“She will eat or I will make her,” Joffrey said. “I imagine she’ll eat quite willingly if Ser Meryn takes over the task of feeding her.”

 _Poor Joffrey. About to lose his favorite toy._ A macabre sense of delight tiptoed within Sansa’s breast, almost jostling her voice free for a moment, even as visions of Ser Meryn’s grimy fingers prying her jaws open morphed into one of him strangling her. He could do it. Joffrey would command him to do it, if only so he could boast that it was his decision to get rid of her and not have Sansa’s death become generally viewed as a lucky escape. But, for whatever reason, the notion didn’t bother her. The black figure remained in the entry, watching her, a shadow devoid of flesh but somehow comforting in its constancy. All men must die, and someday, Joffrey would too. Sansa was almost sad she wouldn’t be there to see it.

Somewhere within her, a feeling stirred as if to say the choice was still hers.

 _No_ , she replied. She was finished. Joffrey would have to find himself a new plaything.

Perhaps due to the somber circumstances, for once the queen seemed as put off by Joffrey’s petulance as everyone else. “I am sure Grand Maester Pycelle will see to it, my dear. Now, why don’t you take Ser Meryn and get in some target practice with that beautiful new crossbow of yours? You will need to hone your skills for when Stannis arrives, and attending sickbeds isn’t a duty fit for a king.”

Joffrey’s wormy lips scrunched into a thoughtful frown. “Of course. She’s just a stupid cow, anyhow. Hardly worth my time.”

“Indeed not,” his mother said, gaze narrowed, with a smile that seemed equal parts artisan’s plaster and contempt. “Why don’t you leave her to us, my love? There’s a good boy. I’ll join you shortly.” With Joffrey gone, she peered into Sansa’s room wearing a scowl. Addressing Tyrion, Cersei’s tone became cutting. “Has there been word from your men? Have they managed to reach Jaime?”

“Not as yet,” he said.

“What do you intend to do, Imp? Leave him to the wolves?”

“Of course not, but the northern army is encamped weeks from here and short of teaching grown men to fly, I have no way of …”

“I might have known not to trust you with this. If it had been left up to me, Jaime would be halfway back to King’s Landing by now.”

“Well, if you’re feeling restless, sweet sister, I am sure there any number of men who can accommodate you in my brother’s absence.”

The hallway filled with the resounding crack of a hand contacting skin. Hard. “Get out of my sight,” the queen seethed. “Both of you.”

There was a long pause where Lord Tyrion tested his jaw, which was rapidly turning bright red. “Come, Pycelle. It is obvious my sister is distraught. Perhaps it’s best we leave her to her grief. Never let it be said that I am not an understanding man.”

“Halfman, you mean,” she spat.

Sansa was doused in heavy silence as Tyrion glared daggers at his sister, and then closed her eyes for a second as footfalls retreated down the hallway.

She was so tired … so very tired …

The mesmeric pull of sleep was snatched away at the tap tap tap of shoes against the stone floor. Sansa’s eyelids again jolted apart.

“Be grateful, Sansa dear. You will never know the burden of carrying your family or having to suffer fools.”

The queen. Yes, of course. How could she have forgotten?

Sansa had grown used to the people around her carrying on conversations as if she wasn’t there. She actually found some small enjoyment in the chatter of the maids when they swapped gossip for the day while changing and airing out her sheets. She had often been lulled to sleep by the sing-song rhythm of their voices, though their candor might have made her blush once. It was fascinating the things people confessed when they believed the listener insensible. It just happened to be mostly true in Sansa’s case.

Just as common, though, were those that spoke to her directly although they knew she could not answer back; Shae, most of all, telling her stories of places she’d been, places Sansa had always dreamed of seeing. The Titan of Braavos. The great Rhoyne river, so large the people of Essos called it the Mother. The tales brought her comfort, though she would never get to travel to those places now. Her imagination took her there well enough.

But Sansa had no desire to listen to the queen. Her toxic mood already pervaded the muted atmosphere of Sansa’s chamber. If Cersei Lannister grieved, it was for her twin. For Sansa she could have nothing but poison on her lips.

It was too hot … always too hot. And Sansa was too tired.

There was an armchair at her bedside. It used to be next to the window where Sansa would sit and sew or read in the afternoons, but it was used almost exclusively by her caretakers now. Her eyelids weighing heavily and craters beneath her eyes, Sansa succombed to her body’s need to rest for a blessed moment before a creak of wood and the soft swish of skirts called her back again.

“You poor little thing. It’s always such a sad thing to lose one so young.” The cloyingly sweet tone could only belong to the queen, but when she looked, Sansa saw red where there was meant to be gold. Long auburn tresses she hadn’t seen since she, Arya, and her father departed from Winterfell. Catelyn Stark smiled at her daughter, her eyes wet. “You’ve hardly had a chance at life, have you?”

Sansa’s intuition told her this was wrong. Her mother couldn’t possibly be here. But she so wanted her to be.

“You’ve not known love or the joys of marriage.” Sansa couldn’t hear the cynical inflection, only the words, and what came next touched her as being absolutely genuine. “And you’ll never know the feeling of holding your brand new babe in your arms. Oh, the love your children could have brought you, Sansa. Celebrating their namedays, running a brush through your daughter’s hair, watching your sons grow old enough to swing their first sword. Such a pity. Those are the things that make life in this world worthwhile.”

Sansa knew. Those were all the things she had dreamed of for as long as she could remember. A husband she loved just as much as her mother had loved her father. Children, a happy, comfortable home tinkling with laughter. Gone.

_Oh, Mother …_

“They tell me you cannot speak. That it is doubtful you can even understand me. Is that true, little dove? Has your mind gone as well?” Catelyn tilted to her head to one side. Sansa saw motherly concern, not needling curiosity from an ice cold stare.

Sansa held Catelyn’s gaze for a long moment, her soft, Tully blue eyes the mirror image of her mother’s. Glazed over and weary, they couldn’t communicate anything. How ashamed she was to have come to this ignoble end. She was unable to even tell her mother how sorry she was for what she’d done. Without the slightest sound, Sansa’s eyes lifted toward the dusky gloom of the ceiling and got lost in it, a sheen of sweat already spreading over her brow.

“Well, then,” the woman said, “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”

Catelyn stood up from the armchair and aimlessly walked the room, her lips puckered in a tight-lipped frown, her fingers curling as if searching for a glass of wine. Sansa peeled her eyes downward to follow her and caught the elegant sway of her hips, the way her gown flowed perfectly along her figure. It was wrong. All of it. But she didn’t know how to see past it.

Catelyn’s tongue licked behind her teeth like a snake deciding when to strike. “I gave you everything, Sansa. I took you into my home, offered you a place in my family, gave you the chance to be a queen and the envy of all the Seven Kingdoms, and this … this is how you repay me.” She spun and, for an instant, it was Cersei. “Is it not enough that you have forsaken yourself? Must you take my brother with you?

“I told Robert it was a mistake choosing you for Joffrey,” she continued. “You Starks think so much of yourselves. Nobles of the North. Blood of the First Men. Yet they come to King’s Landing and they die, one by one. Your father had his honor, but he was blind. Your grandfather and uncle were fools, and Lyanna … poor, poor Lyanna. So weak. All of you.”

With salty tears encroaching around Sansa’s eyes, her legs and hips slowly began to shift beneath the sheets, floundering in a futile attempt to get away from the heat. Her stomach turned. With a feeble effort, she searched the room as her mother’s face looked back at her.

Bethy had gone. Shae, too. There was only the shadow and … the Hound. Outside in the corridor, he stood guard over his mistress. Though his features were inscrutable, he was a pillar of harsh truth in her life and the sudden sight of his severe bearing jarred her senses. Her lips tried and failed to form words, but it didn’t matter. Meaning was there, if only for a few important moments.

_Cersei, not Mother. Cersei, not Mother._

“I promise you, little dove, the day my brother breathes his last will be the day House Stark crumbles. After all, a Lannister always pays her debts,” the queen went on, spewing vengeance with a velvet tongue. “The so-called King in the North, that fool boy, and your mother have already signed their own death warrants. They have started a war they have no hope of winning. Do not worry, though, Sansa. I will see your mother and brother are properly placed beside your father where they belong.”

Shooting, horrible images of a decomposing head on a pike screamed through Sansa’s mind. The queen meant for her family to adorn the walls of King’s Landing. Her heart began to race, her breaths coming in flustered, short-winded heaves.

“Let me see, now. Who does that leave?” Cersei asked in false contemplation. “There’s the bastard boy, but your parents already did the deed there. Life on the Wall is hardly a life at all. Freezing cold, guarding the realm from barbarians and make believe monsters from children’s fairy tales. I’m sure the boy will be grateful to receive my regard when it comes.”

_Jon._

The queen made a reproachful clucking sound behind her teeth. “And the little ones. It’s shameful, really, how your mother could leave her two youngest alone, one a cripple and the other scarcely more than a babe.”

_No!_

“The poor little dears. Young children are so prone to getting into trouble. Accidents are so common.”

_Bran … Rickon …_

A shuddering cry built somewhere deep inside her, but it had no way to get out. Dammed up, the surge of emotions encompassed Sansa’s body and took on an essence all its own. Her face, spine, arms, legs, every part of her shook as if she was freezing, though her skin roasted.

In front of her eyes, the picture changed. Catelyn Stark saw her daughter’s distress and let out a malevolent smile. “Winter is coming, Sansa. For House Stark sooner than the rest of us. On my word, not one of you shall live to see it.”

A tear welled up and streaked rapidly down Sansa’s cheek to soak into her pillow.

“One by one the dominoes will fall, and then Winterfell will …”

“My Queen,” the Hound’s voice suddenly boomed. Cersei—for she was Cersei Lannister again—hissed at the interruption. “Yes? What is it, Clegane?”

The Hound glanced toward Sansa as more tears joined the first on her pillow. Though it lasted only a second, Sansa latched onto his gaze and tried to hang onto it. Her reality spun. Her heart was broken and bleeding. And what did she want from him? Did she want him to yank her up by the hand and tell her everything was going to be alright? To throw her over his shoulder and carry her away from here like he had from the mob? He wasn’t her protector. He wasn’t her sworn shield. It was Lannister gold in his pockets, the Lannisters that provided him his home, his place on the Kingsguard, and it was them he took his orders from. Why was that so easy to forget?

With lumbering steps, he entered the room fully and halted several paces in. “The King will be expecting you,” he rasped, his iron jaw tense.

“Of course.” Cersei sighed and turned her simpering attention back to Sansa. “You’ll understand if I say goodnight to you now, Sansa. My son has need of me. But before I go …” She sat herself gracefully down in the armchair and leaned forward to capture Sansa’s hand in a seemingly tender embrace. “I want you to know one more thing, child.”

The queen’s fingers stroked the inside of Sansa’s palm in a soothing, hypnotic rhythm, a move that she had no doubt practiced on her own children when they were upset. Muddled and dizzy, Sansa blinked heavily, trying desperately to retain her focus. “I want to know before you go to your final rest that no one will ever remember you were here. Your name will die with your family. The world will continue on and your memory will turn to dust.”

The queen’s voice lowered to a peaceful hum. “I was once a prisoner to a memory. Love does terrible things to a man, you know? No, I suppose you don’t. As … fond … as he is of you, Joffrey does not love you. And once you’re gone, you won’t even be a name on his lips.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?” Catelyn Stark said. Sansa broke down into voiceless sobs. “Having a life and no one to remember it? You might as well have never been.” Then, she said with a victorious smile, “How perfectly terrible.”

Staring almost blindly ahead, Sansa quaked in unremitting anguish.

“Sleep well, my dear.” Her mother patted her hand and vanished.

Sansa spent untold minutes awash in silent torment, madness pushing at the boundaries of her vulnerable consciousness as fever assailed her and misery prevailed. In the entryway, the pitiless shadow changed faces so many times Sansa could never have counted them all. One instant, he was her father, then her uncle Benjen, Jory Cassel, Septa Mordane, and half a hundred others she had known since childhood in rapid succession, a whirlwind of painful flashes that rent old sorrows into pieces, creating thousands more.

_What do you want?_

She screamed, but she didn’t. She begged, but she didn’t. Threats rang in her ears. She cried out, but her voice didn’t reach the air. The fires burning her up, she was trapped inside a mind which was she was petrified was collapsing in on itself.

Then, Sansa honed in on his face. He hadn’t moved from the middle of her room. His burned and mangled features had taken on a quality she hadn’t seen from him before. Somehow murderous and worried beyond reason. Was she imagining it? Why would a man like the Hound look so troubled over a stupid little bird?

The question helped to quiet her thoughts. She couldn’t escape the abrasive heat, but for the moment she didn’t care.

“Have you more pleases for me, little bird?” he asked, his rough, gravel-laden tones reaching out to her.

At first, Sansa didn’t know what he was talking about, then she remembered the innumerable feverish pleas for him to bring an end to her suffering. Not to anyone else. Just him. She hadn’t been certain any of it was real, but if he was asking her … Perhaps she wasn’t as far gone as she feared. If she was to depart this world, she wanted to go while still remembering who she was. Even if no one else will, she thought with another knifing pang of regret.

The Hound towered over her as he had done before, as if he were waiting for her to ask again, hoping that a stern glance would bring her voice back. Maybe she hadn’t slipped so far she couldn’t ask at least one more time.

She couldn’t.

“You’ve truly got too tired to sing,” he finally said. “Haven’t you?” He spat out the last as if the very thought was acid on his tongue. His ruinous, penetrating stare made her feel naked and exposed, as if he could see right through her. But for the first time since laying eyes on the fiendish Hound, Sansa felt like she could see him too.

“My lady!” Shae arrived in the entrance and, taking one look at the state she was in, ran inside. She brushed past the Hound with no more regard than she would a ghost, but Sansa knew he wasn’t.

As Shae hurriedly poured her a glass of water and positioned herself behind Sansa’s head to help her drink, he left her. His quiet shadow watched him go, and Sansa recited one more please for him.

_Please. Don’t go._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to kickstand75 for her beta on this chapter.

Caught up in an errant breeze, fine strands of Sansa’s hair floated and danced across her face, tickling her nose and the skin of her cheeks. They looped along in delicate arcs like the fingers of some unearthly being going where they pleased, painting abstract patterns of red across her wasted and sallow complexion; a grave portrait of what happens when a child of dreams becomes trapped in a world of nightmares. The wayward flurry traveled over her prone figure, touching her everywhere it could, like a lover’s caress against her red-hot skin, down the cusp of her neck, the stretch of her arms, rustling the thin material of her shift as it went along. Slowly it covered her, encasing her inside a chill cocoon that protected her from the furnace fires that still burned beneath.

Sansa stirred.

All she saw was darkness to begin with. _First, it was my voice. Is it to be my sight next?_ Her thoughts moved as sluggishly as molasses. Unconsciousness jealously clung to her, reluctant to release its grip, but her eyes eventually began to adjust and images formed in the void.

It was night, deep into the night if the general hush was any indicator. There wasn’t the usual pattering of footsteps or clink of armor. No doubt the forges outside had been doused hours ago, the kennels shut up, and all the little lords and ladies in residence tucked into their featherbeds. Only those assigned to guard duty would be roaming the castle and gates of the Red Keep—and whoever was sitting with Sansa tonight, for in her condition she was never left alone. Whether it was in the company of the Grand Maester himself or one or more of her ladies’ maids, there was always someone around to aid her when needed.

Or to bear witness to her passage.

Her shadowy observer had moved while she slept, Sansa noticed. Having abandoned its position in her doorway, it now hovered near the head of the bed, its many faces showing a palpable, leering regard where before there had only been … Sansa was at a loss to name it. It had been too cunning to be simple curiosity. A knowing interest perhaps? Drawn in by its close presence, Sansa assumed the change meant that the release she had so yearned for was imminent, but the faceless aspect of its visage was giving away no answers.

 _Soon. Whatever it is waiting for will be decided soon and I will be set free._ Though whatever peace Sansa may have had at the thought was irrevocably ruined. As the queen had undoubtedly intended, her threats against Sansa’s brothers pervaded her mind, consuming her with guilt and regret that she could do nothing to help them. She couldn’t even help herself. She hadn’t the strength. The lions had taken her and eaten her whole.

“So you’ve decided to wake, have you, little bird?”

It took time for the Hound’s deep rasping voice to register and longer for Sansa to summon the will and the energy it took to merely turn her head. Blinking heavily, she broke from the shadow’s strange hypnotic hold on her and, like a veil had suddenly been lifted, she began to notice the breeze that had awoken her and where it had come from.

In her chambers there was a set of three lancets, one bigger with a smaller one on each side, beautifully crafted but plain, with multiple panes of sectioned glass. The one in the center was shattered.

She looked to the Hound, but if he had been looking at her before, he didn’t anymore. He stood like a great statue facing the fireplace, paying her little mind, merely watching the fire. The flames within had been allowed to burn down to simmering coals. A strong gust blew inside, breathing on the dying embers, and partially hidden by strings of black hair, his horrific profile was touched by the resulting warm orange glow as he stared grimly ahead. His white cloak stood out in the brooding darkness hovering over the room with the rest of his armor simply fading into the gloom. His gauntlets had been cast aside and placed on the mantle. His right hand, dirty and bare, with his knuckles wrapped in a bandage splotched with dry blood, clutched the neck of his wineskin. Without a sound, he drew it up to his lips and gulped its contents.

When he had taken all he wanted for the moment, he wiped his mouth with the back of his injured hand. “I tried to wake you earlier, but you didn’t seem to notice,” he said without looking, haphazardly waving the wineskin to indicate the rest of her room. All emotion seemed to have been carved out of his voice.

Sansa followed his cue and looked more closely at the ominous scene around her. Many of the candles had been snuffed out by the wind, but a few wicks still burned, tiny beacons of light in the darkness. Jagged shards of glass were sprayed all around the base of the windows, catching the moonlight in a glittering display of wreckage. Cold night air streamed into her bedchamber unchecked, catching and billowing up the tails of her drapes as it came. She found more glass from a broken vase scattered along the floor. Her few books had been tossed about and the endtable they had all been standing on was overturned. She should have been shocked, she realized somewhere deep down, but Sansa looked on the destruction curiously unaffected. She did, however, wonder when it had happened, how she could have been unaware of it. Where was—

“If you’re looking for your minder, she scurried off,” the Hound said, answering her question before she could ask it herself. Her eyes, slow though they were, moved back toward him and caught him as he soaked up another long belt from his wineskin. “Mayhap she’s gone to help Pycelle take a piss. Be of more use than doing what she was, sitting around here doing nothing.”

Sansa recognized the sheen over his eyes that men got when they’d been too much in their cups. She’d seen it on him often enough. He was drunk.

“Mousy little thing. She squeaked,” he said. A mirthless, bitter chuckle rumbled from his throat at his victim’s expense, and he set into his wine again.

 _Bethy._ Sansa pitied the girl, though Bethy was actually a few years older than she was. Not so long ago, the Hound’s temper and angry threats would have easily reduced Sansa to tears. But not anymore. She had learned there were things far scarier in the world than the King’s Dog, the massive brute known throughout Westeros as an ugly, merciless killer. Despite his rages and the apparent joy he took in his duties and in frightening the young maid, Sansa couldn’t hate him or fear him. In the beginning, Sansa had never known what to say to him when he would focus his hateful, twisted scowls on her. He was bigger than any man she’d ever seen up close, intimidating. His voice had a way of making her feel like the ground itself was shaking beneath her feet, and he behaved as unpredictably as a wounded animal. Ferocious when cornered. If enough care was taken, one might get close, but even in the best of circumstances he was more to likely to snarl and bare his teeth than anything.

It had taken Sansa a long time to look beyond his outward appearance, irate stares, and open disdain for seemingly everything around him. Too long, she feared. Through her exhaustion, all she felt now was a twinge of sadness. She wondered how long he’d been there, staring at the fire and drowning himself in his wine.

_He looks so alone._

If he knew her thoughts, he would have sneered at her, called her a stupid little bird, and mocked her for caring when she was the one trodden into nothing, about to die.

Still, she cared. She couldn’t help it.

The Hound paced around the foot of her bed and circled toward her, and Sansa observed with fascination as the shadow at her side watched _him_. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but it had never paid anyone the slightest attention but her and the Hound. Not knowing its mind, Sansa could only guess what that meant, although as the Hound drew closer and sat down upon the edge of her mattress near her hip, she got a sense of its anticipation surging through every fiber of her body.

Sansa herself was thrown some at his proximity. He was so big. His stoic presence seemed to swallow her up, but surprisingly Sansa found she didn’t mind.

“She could learn a thing or two from the Eastern bitch,” he said, the black humor in his tone camouflage for something darker. There was purpose in his stoic gaze. His irreverent smirk was a thinly disguised frown. “That one knows when to look a man in the eye. I expect she knows how to look a man in a few other places as well.” He threw a glance her way. “Does that shock you, little bird? The very idea that your faithful companion is a whore?”

 _Do you want it to?_ As a proper lady, it should have, but the concerns of her former life had come to seem so small, as if they were someone else’s to worry about now. She wished she could answer him. Instead, all he got was a blank stare from someone who might as well have already gone.

The Hound released a hopeless, grating cackle as though he were laughing at a ghost. “Where is that chirping little bird Ned Stark brought here, huh? Was she put away with all your little dolls and pretty dresses? Looks like you’ll be flying your cage sooner than anyone thought, eh, little bird. But they’ve broken your wings, haven’t they?”

His barking laughter died quickly as he lowered his head. “Aye, your family did you no favors, that’s for certain, filling your head with fairy stories and nonsense. This shithole is for naught but liars, thieves, and killers. Honor has no place here, and it’s certainly no place for girls and their dreams. The moment your father brought you to King’s Landing, it was only a matter of time before you got crushed beneath someone else’s boot heel. I suppose it’s lucky you’ve lasted this long. Shame … ”

A flash of pain spread across his tormented appearance, and tears pearled in the corners of Sansa’s eyes. “You’re a pretty little thing, girl,” he whispered, a quaver in his voice. “And there are times when a little bird’s chirping can be music to an old dog’s ears. Even when she can’t look him full in the face.”

He reached around behind him with his left hand and came back with a dagger, a snarling dog inset into the hilt. Meanwhile, over his shoulder, Sansa noticed the shadow's attention was rapt on both of them. Dread began to clinch her heart. _No … No, not him too._

“I don’t suppose it matters much what happens next,” the Hound said, turning the dagger in his hand. “Not when it comes to an old dog like me. I’ve got so much blood on my hands I could live the rest of my life as a buggering saint and it’d still be the fires for me when I’m gone. What’s one more, eh, girl?”

Before Sansa fully realized what he intended to do, the Hound was over her and the knife was at her throat. The sharp edge of the blade bit into her skin while he clutched both her wrists in one of his huge hands, pinning them above her head. He needed no more force than he would need to crack a pair of brittle twigs to do it.

“Have you a song for me now, little bird? Tell me this is what you really want and I’ll make it quick. Just one word, little bird. Ask me one more time. Say please and call me a fucking ser. That’s all it’ll take. Just once more. Talk to me, girl,” the Hound rasped, begging. His body veritably shaking with tension, his fingers dug into her wrists as he pushed them harder into the bed. Sansa's heart hammered in her chest and she was certain he could feel his effect on her, but frustration poured from him when he couldn't elicit one cry from her, not a single sound from her broken voice.

His manner strained and livid, he growled, “Sing, little bird. You promised me a song, now sing. _Sing for me, girl._ ”

Sansa closed her eyes and turned away, not knowing what to do. The move opened her throat to him, inadvertently causing the knife to burrow deeper into her flesh. The blade was so sharp she barely felt the sting, and the resulting stream of blood felt almost cool as it trickled down her scalding skin.

Death sweetly called out to her promising ease and rest. It was her choice. The fever was on her and, beneath the Hound, her lungs had to grope for every breath. In a few days, a week at most, she would be a ravaged and empty shell. Freedom from Joffrey and an escape from the queen’s wrath, but in the worst way Sansa could imagine.

The Hound was offering her mercy. All she had to do was take it.

And with certainty in her heart and tears rapidly filling her eyes in limpid pools, she knew they would kill him for it. Why else would the shadow be waiting on him, too?

The choice was hers, it seemed to say again. It had said it several times before, but she only now understood. The choice was hers. Perhaps she couldn’t help her brothers or change the fate the Lannisters had in mind for her family, but she could spare him.

Exhausted, panting, and restrained hard in the warm clasp of the Hound’s fist, Sansa’s fingers flailed around, grasping where she could reach with soft touches at his rough hand, mutely coaxing him to let her go. Wearing a mistrustful glare, his grip gradually loosened and Sansa reached for his face. She tenderly stroked his scarred cheek, her fingers curling over the damaged folds of skin that had once frightened her so.

The Hound’s breath caught at her touch and, for an instant, Sansa wondered if he would turn on her as he had before. With a soft look and a sorrowful smile, she tried to communicate that she understood what he was trying to do in spite of the costs. She couldn’t fathom why he would do such a thing for her—she was still just a stupid little bird, after all—but she appreciated more than she could ever say.

She shook her head. _No._

“Little bird …” his harsh voice shook.

_No._

His steel grey eyes closed, though Sansa didn’t know if it was out of remorse or relief. Either would do, so long as he was safe.

The knife disappeared from her neck and was replaced by his enormous hand. He pressed down on the cut until the bleeding stopped and washed it using a rag dipped in the water basin Bethy had set out, one of the few things to survive his earlier tirade. He went about the task with a level of care Sansa could never have suspected a man like him to possess. Her awareness dimming, she drifted on an empty sea as he dabbed at her wound and spread the cooling water over the whole of her neck, enjoying his touch and the honest comfort of another human being.

When the task was finished, his hand lingered. As if he expected her to disappear in a wisp of smoke, it was light and hesitant, and just long enough for her to feel as though she’d lost something when it left. “Don’t you worry, girl. It may not mean much coming from a monster, but I’ll remember you.”

As he got up to leave, Sansa was drawn swiftly back from the brink. She couldn’t escape the undeniable sense that, once he was gone, he wouldn’t be coming back. Forgetting she couldn’t speak, Sansa tried to call after him. She wanted to say thank you, because goodbye suddenly seemed too hard. Ultimately she wasn’t capable of saying either. With a heavy heart, she resigned herself to the silence.

Then, he halted in the doorway and turned around.

“Fuck them all, Little Bird, the whole buggering lot of them,” he said in his familiar rasp, unforgiving as steel. “Let the Imp and the queen tear each other to bits. Let Joffrey bring the whole kingdom to ruin. You get up, you play the game and keep on chirping those damn courtesies you love so much, and mark my words, someday you’ll drink wine over each of their rotting corpses, girl.”

He adopted a hard, cavalier smirk and stared straight across Sansa’s bed at the shadow. “You tell the Stranger to go fuck himself.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Three weeks later**

 

"My Lady? Lady Sansa, are you alright?"

Sansa blinked and looked around.

She was seated on the edge of her bed, where only moments before Shae had been kneeling comfortably behind her, brushing and plaiting her hair while she talked idly of the business at court. But the reflection peering back at Sansa from the surface of her looking glass wasn’t one of ease. Shae regarded her with a concerned frown.

She had done it again.

“Are you alright?” Shae asked again.

Sansa nodded slowly, her consciousness sharpening once again.

“Do you want me to fetch the maester?”

With a sigh, Sansa shook her head. There was no point. Pycelle would only tell her the same thing he already had. Difficulties were bound to occur when one went as far to the other side as she had and yet lived. As with the other lingering effects of her illness, her spells would likely pass with time. She needed only to be patient, the old maester had advised, and thus far he seemed to have made the right assessment. They were already much more infrequent than they had been in the beginning.

Shae responded with a cool tip of her chin. She hadn’t expected Sansa to agree; nevertheless, it was her duty to ask. The handmaiden returned to Sansa’s hair, lightly threading her fingers into the long auburn locks.

“Lollys is doing better,” she said, apparently content to pick up where she had left off. “Her mother is hopeful that the worst of the morning sickness has passed. Good thing, too. Anise says if she has to take a mop to her floors one more time, she’ll slip something extra into the girl’s tea. Then Lady Stokeworth won’t have to worry herself sick over an unwanted bastard any longer.” Sansa peered over her shoulder at her, her brows knit in a troubled crease, and the corner of Shae’s mouth ticked upward. “I do not think she means to go through with it, Lady Sansa. Though it would be far less likely if Lollys could vomit in her pail as she should.”

Sansa smiled a little at that, though the image did sour her stomach some. She had developed an appreciation for her handmaiden’s candor. Shae had never shown her anything but kindness and had proven to be the only one around her Sansa trusted to be honest. Sansa had no memory of events after that dark night with the Hound, and the majority of those around her had seemed reluctant to relate what had happened to her. It was improper for her to speak of such things, she had been told rather abruptly by one of the Lannister’s senior household staff. The matters and mysteries of life and death were better left to the gods. She should just be grateful she lived and have done with it. Shae, on the other hand, was not as worried about the impropriety of her questions as the others and told her the truth.

Apparently, a week passed and Sansa never woke. On the rare occasion her eyes had opened, they had been forced to close them for her, for they were unmoving and unseeing as though trapped on the other side of a cosmic veil. Her fever had run rampant, unaffected by anything they tried. She burned up. Many times, they had needed to check closely to see if she still lived, because her breaths had grown too shallow to discern. They had thought her irretrievably lost, right up until the moment her fever broke. Some of the servants were thrown when she came back after having had one foot in this world and one in the next. Surely, Lady Sansa had looked the Stranger in the eye, they whispered. It wasn’t natural for her to have returned. Shae told Sansa it was a lot of superstitious foolishness and not to take it to heart.

She didn’t. She _had_ looked the Stranger in the eye, and based on how she had felt since, Sansa wasn’t so sure she hadn’t come out somewhat changed by the experience.

Shae finished her braids and tied them back. Then she stepped off the bed to view them from the front to make sure they were straight. Seeming satisfied that everything was in its proper place, Shae held up the looking glass for her. “Well? What do you think?”

 _I think I’m looking back at a person I have never met._ Sansa took the mirror for herself, scarcely taking note of her hair. No matter how many times looked, she still didn’t recognize herself. It wasn’t even the bruise that covered nearly the entire left side of her face, a dark green imprint the precise size of Ser Boros’ hand. She was much thinner now. The architecture around her cheekbones had hollowed out, prominent still even though she had regained her appetite. There was something in her eyes, as well … She looked older now, she thought. Certainly older than her fourteen years.

Her gaze couldn’t help but shift briefly toward the narrow pink line that ran in a diagonal across her throat. The color of a woman’s blush. Sansa wondered offhand if that would please the Hound; he always seemed to enjoy making her complexion glow with embarrassment.

He had been gone so long now she might have wondered if that entire incident had been the trick of an addled mind if it weren’t for the existence of that small pink scar.

With an unexpected prick of sadness, Sansa handed the mirror back to Shae and gave a short nod of approval.

Shae pursed her lips. “You know you are supposed to answer aloud, my Lady. The maester says the more you speak, the better it will get.”

Sansa accepted the slight scolding with good grace, although speaking still made her uneasy. The timbre and texture of her own voice continued to sound foreign to her and every syllable always seemed to come out a touch slower than it should. With effort and a certain amount of scratchiness in her tone, Sansa said, “It looks … beautiful. Thank you.”

Her gratitude must not have been convincing enough, because Shae stared back at her with a knowing expression. “Are you sure you want to do this today? It can wait if you are not feeling up for it.”

“No,” Sansa said quickly. She paused a moment to form the right words. “I would … like ... to go outside.”

Let them look. Let all of King’s Landing see what its King had done to her. Sansa just wanted to breathe fresh air and to see the bright open sky. She had been cooped up too long.

“Very well.” Shae helped Sansa to her feet. “Do you wish to go by the sept on our way out?”

Habit took over again and Sansa shook her head. She wasn’t certain when she would set foot in a sept again, but it wouldn’t be anytime soon. After encountering what she believed was one of the Seven face to face, Sansa imagined praying to a paltry statue would have little meaning. And there was the matter that she was convinced that, for the rest of her life, every time she set eyes on the Stranger’s facsimile the Hound’s parting words to her would leap to mind. It would be … profane … to bring them into the sacred sept.

Sansa suppressed the temptation to smile. She hoped for the Hound’s sake the Seven had a sense of humor, because he would most certainly not be seeking forgiveness. She had never met anyone as proudly unrepentant as him.

The streets below the dizzying towers of the Red Keep bustled as the two women walked, Shae’s arm hooked into Sansa’s elbow and Ser Mandon following along as their escort. The late morning sun beat down warmly on the city. Sansa and Shae strolled at a leisurely pace as men shouted to one another as they unloaded their wagons filled with flour and grain, one of them kicking away a black-and-white spotted dog, likely a stray searching for scrap. The armorers and smiths were busy forging as many weapons as their tools could yield. A newly made sword hit water and sent steam in all directions as they passed.

“The Queen has ordered supplies be sent to Maegor’s Holdfast for the women and children,” Shae said, commenting on the tense atmosphere. “Lord Tyrion has been making preparations for the city’s defense, but the Council is worried. With Renly’s bannermen joining up with Stannis and half the royal forces afield battling the Northmen, they say there may not be enough fighting men in King’s Landing to withstand an assault.”

Sansa listened intently, though she wanted nothing to do with the subject of battle. She was happy to leave the worrying to the Lannisters. If the gods were just, Stannis would crush them. If not, Sansa hoped in the least that the Stranger was haunting Joffrey’s throne room as faithfully as he had haunted her.

_“Ser Boros, knock some sense back into my Lady. I’ll not have everyone thinking the King is betrothed to a simpleton.”_

At one time, the memory of her latest assault might have sent Sansa headlong into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, but she relived it now from a distance, as if it had happened to someone else. Almost immune.

Sansa’s spells had been most prevalent in the first few days after her fever broke, intermittent lapses of awareness that isolated her mind from the world at large. Sansa found them comforting in a strange way. For a few moments (or several minutes as it sometimes was), she could wander about in the peaceful haze, away from her tormentors, and glory in the fleeting sensation that no one could touch her there. She thought her spells might be a fading echo of where she'd been in that missing week, when she was all but gone. 

Their continued reappearances into the next week had the elder Lannisters concerned. 

Joffrey hated it.

Sansa couldn’t recall what set him off, only what had come next. Ser Boros had been on her so fast Sansa had hardly thought to react before her vision exploded and she was on the floor. The room itself seemed to gasp. But while she was crouched on the floor, her face throbbing and the metallic taste of blood in her mouth, Sansa had bizarrely felt like laughing.

Joffrey could call himself a king, wear his crown, and sit his Iron Throne, but he was merely a spoiled, mewling child, so pathetic that he would beat the object of his fixation just out of her deathbed because she wouldn't pay attention to him.  He had never  seemed so small  to her.  Compared to what she had just been through, he was nothing. 

It was this incident more than anything that made Sansa wonder if her encounter with the Stranger hadn’t altered her in some way like some of the servants feared. She had never been what anyone would call strong before. Or brave. Arya had always loved to tease her when she ran screaming from a lizard in the woods outside Winterfell or crying when she found a dead snake tucked in her bed. Why had the Stranger spared her? She had wholly offered herself to him. Was this why? So she could become … someone else? So she could reap the benefit of knowing that death wasn’t something to be afraid of? To what end? Again, she wondered why. 

Maybe it hadn't been the Stranger, maybe it had been her. Maybe somewhere along the way, somewhere inside the fire, she had made a choice for herself and she had chosen to live. Maybe she had done exactly as the Hound had told her to do. 

Then again, her survival may have simply been a matter of luck. Good or bad, only time would tell.

It was all so confusing to her, but she had already gotten the only answer she was likely to get. She hadn’t seen the shadow since she had awoken. He might still wait for her, unseen now that her vision was unclouded by fever, but she doubted it. Whatever had happened, whoever she had become, this was it. Her life was now in her own hands. It was up to her to see what became of it. 

Sansa grew tired rather quickly, but asked to continue on further. She wasn’t quite ready to go back to the castle, so they kept walking amid the masses of the Capitol. With Ser Mandon’s ever watchful eyes on them, they watched their steps as women tossed the contents of household chamber pots out into the gutter. A squad of Goldcloaks marched past. Their commander tipped his head, giving Sansa her necessary due as a lady but was forbidding in his manner. His face was weathered and scorched by the sun, his mouth set into a permanent scowl. His gaze sent tremors down Sansa’s spine. 

_“This shithole is for naught but liars, thieves, and killers. Honor has no place here, and it’s certainly no place for girls and their dreams.”_

Unbidden, Sansa’s thoughts again sought out the Hound and his embittered, hardened statements. She couldn’t deny how true they could be. 

_“A dog will die for you, but never lie to you.”_

_It isn’t all bad_ , she thought to herself as if to argue with him—as if she’d ever had the courage to argue with him. Sansa enjoyed the sun and the salt-scented breeze coming in from off the bay. There were children outside at play, laughing and roughhousing, and Sansa caught a glimpse of two lovers stealing a kiss in an alleyway as they moved along. The small things it had been so easy to forget when it had seemed the world held nothing worth hanging on for. Not everyone was a monster. Shae wasn’t. Jeyne Poole hadn’t been. Her father hadn’t been. Her mother and brothers weren’t. And as surely as he would have mocked her for being a naive fool, she didn’t believe the Hound was either. 

Sansa swallowed a heavy lump creeping up her throat. Wherever he was, she hoped he was alright. 

“My Lady?” Shae watched her with concern once again.

“I am … fine.” Sansa barely glanced her way, deeply distracted by her thoughts.

“Do you want to turn back?” 

“Not yet. Soon.”

The sight of a tanner sneaking a sip out of a wineskin almost immediately derailed Sansa’s attempt to enjoy the rest of her brief outing. A gnawing feeling dug deep into the pit of her stomach as she could help wondering about the Hound. 

The tale of his departure was another that Shae had told her, but from what Sansa understood, it had spread around the entire city. The next morning, he had been summoned before the King to answer for his actions. For getting drunk, for losing control and wrecking Sansa’s chambers. For threatening her life. Grand Maester Pycelle had been keen to point out that part from all accounts. Already in the venomous queen’s sights for Sansa’s deteriorating condition, he wouldn’t have the responsibility of injury—however small—to the King’s betrothed laid at his feet as well.

The Hound denied none of it. 

Some said it was a punishment, but Sansa didn’t believe it; Joffrey would have sooner congratulated the Hound for threatening her than punish him for it. Others said the Hound had volunteered. Either way, he had next been seen riding out of King’s Landing with fifty men on his heels. It was said he rode his demon black courser as if the hounds of all seven hells were on his scent. They would have to be. He was under orders to do everything in his power to slow Stannis’ approach. 

Fifty men against a reported twenty thousand. 

Sansa went ashen, and Shae’s grip on her suddenly tightened precipitously.

“My lady, I think we’ve gone far enough for today,” she said firmly. 

Sansa nodded and allowed herself to be led back to the castle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been an incredibly busy few days and I haven't been able to reply to everyone's comments, but I wanted all of you to know that I'm so grateful for all your kind words. They're very humbling and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. :) 
> 
> Second to last chapter. I hope you enjoy!

Sansa walked alongside Shae, another of her handmaidens, and a cavalcade of escorts, through the busy market square outside the Red Keep with the King.

Joffrey had insisted, oddly giddy at the thought of returning her to the site of her initial infection. “I wouldn’t dream of going without you, my dear Sansa,” he had said, simpering with mock affection. It only made him look like a fool. As if she had reason to fear it would happen again.

It probably would have been smarter to make more of a show of anxiety or reticence at the prospect, but Sansa had merely curtsied and bent her head, nothing more.

Stunned at her aloofness, a disbelieving smirk had crawled up the corner of Joffrey’s lips. “Is that all?”

Sansa lifted her gaze, her vibrant blue eyes twin lakes that had frozen over. “If it will give you pleasure, your Grace.”

In response, he had sent her a look that promised she would pay for her coldness later. Sansa was unmoved. He’d have found an excuse to punish her regardless. At least in provoking him she would be aware of her supposed crime. Let him try and tear her down. He couldn’t hurt her anymore. Not where it mattered.

Sansa ambled along as Joffrey moved from stall to stall with her hands demurely folded into one another, observing the scene with well-learned detachment that was one of the few protections she could give herself. The City Watch had doubled and Sansa hardly took notice. Strange men worked on the harbor, loading ships with crates, and she didn’t care. Even when smoke filled the sky around King’s Landing, all the structures outside the city walls being burned to the ground, Sansa looked past the dense cloud to what lay farther out in the distance, searching the horizon for something and nothing. Smallfolk were crammed inside the city gates for their own protection, the Capital was on the brink of attack, and Sansa’s thoughts were miles and miles away. With so many smallfolk displaced from their homes and the usual residents of the city scrambling to make room for them, the aisles between seller’s booths teemed with people looking to purchase food and other necessities, all of which were in short supply. Joffrey looked down his nose at all of them. Goldcloaks shoved people aside as if they were no better than cattle to clear a path for the boy king. Any remark on her part about their rough treatment might have resulted in punishment for the innocents and not just for herself, so Sansa kept her eyes forward and stayed silent.

The perfect lady.

To Sansa’s relief, for all the enjoyment he’d taken in getting her here, Joffrey seemed to forget her soon enough. He stumbled on a merchant selling Eastern blades, a skinny fellow with more tattoos than hair and a diamond stud in his nose. Joffrey was engrossed in the man’s wares. Like a toddler playing a game, one second he cooed over the jewelled hilt of a longsword and the elegance of the curved blade on a scimitar, and the next he chided the merchant, telling him that he could get better steel from the castle armory.

“I am certain your Highness is in possession of magnificent swords,” the merchant said, “but do they possess anything close to the elegance and craftsmanship you see before you?”

Ignoring him, Joffrey held up a Dothraki _arakh_ for her inspection. “Sansa, what do you think of this one?”

 _I hope Stannis cuts out your heart with it._ “It seems to be a fine blade, your Grace.”

“For a fleabitten savage, maybe. Certainly not a weapon worthy of a king,” he sneered at her.

“As you say, your Grace.”

“Yes, of course, as I say, you stupid twit. I am the King.”

 _Keep on chirping, little bird_ , some part of her said in a voice that wasn’t her own.

The memory of that night took over and all she saw was the Hound’s scorching gaze and the desperation she’d seen as he both threatened and implored her to speak to him one last time. _“Just one word, little bird. Ask me one more time. Say please and call me a fucking ser. That’s all it’ll take. Just once more. Talk to me, girl.”_   Would he be happy to know she was whole again, that she was again the chirping little bird he’d always found so irritating?

Sansa’s eyes turned from Joffrey, content to focus on anything else, because she had come to the conclusion quite some time ago that she would never know. She had stubbornly clung to the notion the Hound was still out there and slowly her hopes had withered away a sliver at a time. They dried up and floated away like leaves in the autumn that had sensed their time was finished, and still he did not return.

It was nearly two moons since Sansa had initially been stricken ill, nearly two moons and almost as long since the Hound had all but vanished. For nearly two moons she had watched the sun rise over the horizon and bid it goodnight once again when the hour was right, her gaze pulled with magnetic consistency toward that mysterious line in the distance that marked the point beyond where human eyes could see. Still, he didn’t return.

In spite of the choice she had made, the Stranger had abandoned her only to follow him into the Kingswood. She didn’t want Joffrey to see how much that thought hurt her. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of believing his petty insults had done the deed.

_You weren’t supposed to take him. It was supposed to be me. It was supposed to be me …_

"Yes, your Grace," she said, her tone dead.

The exchange ended with a fulsome smirk as Joffrey callously flopped the weapon onto counter and moved on.

Sansa glanced to her left. Shae gave her a subtle nod of approval, and Sansa straightened her shoulders, rallying her strength to see her through the rest of the outing.

It was another hour before Joffrey grew bored. “A man can take only so much of this filth, Commander,” he addressed Ser Jacelyn Bywater, Commander of the City Watch. Joffrey’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the milling crowd around them. Sansa didn’t find anything particularly objectionable about them. Plain, simple clothing and a few dirty brown knees on little boys who had been on the ground playing with a yipping litter of pups, but nothing uncommon to any place she’d ever been. If what she had heard about the current conditions in Flea Bottom were true, then the scene here was practically pristine.

“Would Your Highness like to return to the Red Keep?” the tall, older man asked, terse yet diplomatic. Sansa had never particularly liked Ser Jacelyn. He was as rigid as the iron hand he was known for and carried on his right wrist. But Sansa appreciated his attitude toward the King. He carried his antipathy with dignity, but it was obvious he had drawn the short straw when the question of who would act as Joffrey’s escort had come up this morning.

Sansa hoped next to hear that this needless excursion was finished, but the arrival of a messenger dashed that idea. The messenger was a boy of around twelve with a blue woolen shirt that was too tight around the middle. Heavily winded from his run, he handed a note to Ser Jacelyn and gulped a few words that Sansa couldn’t quite make out. Ser Jacelyn broke the seal in a perfunctory manner and read it quickly. “Your uncle has need of you, your Highness,” he said.

Joffrey rolled his eyes. “My uncle believes he can summon me at his whim. Perhaps I need to remind him of what happened to his predecessor when he became too much of a nuisance. What do you think of that, Sansa?”

Sansa stood as still as a statue, absorbing the blow as his callous reminder of her father’s murder landed like a whip directly to her heart.

Ser Jacelyn looked at her, his bushy brows furrowed, and then handed the summons to the King. “I am afraid it is urgent, your Highness.”

Joffrey snatched it from his hand and and quickly perused it. Scowling, he gave a curt nod.

With a second nod from Ser Jacelyn, in swift order the Goldcloaks closed ranks and started shouting to the masses to make way for the King. Numb, Sansa was slow to react and received a rude shove for it as the party moved forward. She nearly tripped over her own skirts.

“Come along, my Lady,” Shae urged with a hand wrapped tight above Sansa’s elbow, her dark curls bouncing and sliding across her barely covered shoulders.

“What is happening? Is it Stannis?” Sansa whispered.

“I do not know,” Shae said, her expression grim. “If it is him, the war is upon us.”

It wasn’t far to the Red Keep. A short stroll up the winding bends of Shadowblack Lane would have taken them to the top of Aegon’s Hill and the north gate of the castle in mere minutes. But contrary to Sansa’s expectations, they weren’t taken to the castle. They were led to the stables.

Around them, stablehands scrambled about their duties as what appeared to be dozens of horses filled the courtyard. Armored riders, filthy and bloodstained, stripped the saddlebags that bore their belongings from the backs of their lathered mounts before the animals were led away to be groomed and fed. Surrounded by a thin wall of Goldcloaks partially blocking her view, an imposing black stallion caught Sansa’s eye in the midst of the flurry. Its head held high, a young groom held precariously to the reins as it repeatedly lifted its foreleg and stamped its hoof against the brick foundation, blowing and snorting like a thing possessed. Its sweat-soaked coat glistened blue under the midday sun. The Stranger’s namesake in all his glory.

Sansa’s pulse quickened.

“Ah, nephew! So good of you to join us.”

Sansa spun. Tyrion Lannister stepped out from the covered alcove across the courtyard with the shadow of the Hound looming large over him.

In a moment of shock, Sansa’s breathing arrested and her knees grew weak. Only the reality of Shae sidling closer to her, clinging to her arm, prevented Sansa from giving in to the far away feeling that threatened to smother her consciousness.

“Deep breaths, my Lady,” Shae said. Like everyone else probably would, her handmaiden believed her reaction to be one of fright at seeing the man who had threatened her and held a knife to her throat. Sansa did not correct her, nor would she.

The Hound’s horse, Stranger, wheeled around and practically tore the reins from the stablehand’s grip. The young man was clearly outmatched. In his clumsy attempt to regain control of the unruly courser, he yanked the leather lines hard, jarring the bit. Stranger tossed his head and reared, steel-shod hooves striking the air with deadly force.

Sansa never saw the Hound move, but the next she knew his colossal hands were on the scruff of the stablehand’s neck. Pulling him out of strike range, the Hound tossed him to the ground like a sack of garbage. Then, with Stranger at his back the Hound hauled him up again, jerking him by his tunic, face to petrifying face. Months of filth on his hands and blood and grime staining his white Kingsguard regalia, the Hound’s countenance was a fearsome sight to behold and his temper was lost. Sansa cringed to see him so angry. “You want to live, boy? Huh? Answer me!”

The boy nodded frantically, terrified to even look at him.

“You do that again and you won’t be needing the likes of me to save your miserable existence. He’ll kill you as sure as you’re about to piss yourself.”

“Yesss … yesss, ser …” the boy said.

The Hound snarled, “What did you call me?”

Joffrey tittered with delight while Lord Tyrion watched the display with his arms folded over his chest. “Is this strictly necessary, Clegane?”

“Mind your own business, Imp.”

“I only mention it because there is the small matter of an enemy invasion force practically on our doorstep. But I suppose it can wait until you’ve finished.”

The Hound glared at him and the Hand gestured toward the boy. “No, no, I insist. Please continue.”

The Hound’s upper lip curled. He dropped the boy who rapidly scuttled away. Murmuring words too low to hear, he turned and took Stranger in hand with no more difficulty than Sansa would have had with a newborn kitten. The horse’s feet settled on the ground with his master at his head and his thunderous bellows were soon replaced with a soft, rumbling nicker. The Hound gave the animal a forceful yet affectionate clap on the neck and led him over to where the King and Lord Tyrion waited.

Then, without warning, he froze mid-stride.

Among her escorts, Sansa’s eyes found his as he had finally found hers. Astonishment read all over his scarred features.

Sansa was paralyzed.

Joffrey, observing the tense moment, smirked. “You remember the Hound, don’t you, Sansa? He’s the one who gave you that necklace you wear around your neck.”

Sansa cast her eyes downward as they both knew she wore no such thing. The last time she wore one, Joffrey had ordered it removed. The fading scar across her throat was now a shade of pink paler than that which could be found beneath her fingernails, yet it still stood out from her creamy complexion. Sansa found no shame in it or in the emotionally charged act that had led to it, but there were occasions when she wished it were in an area more conducive to discretion like all the her other scars. The way Joffrey leered at it made her ill at ease, examining it as he had examined items for sale in the marketplace, considering its beauty and wondering if her appearance might be enhanced by a few more. Only not in the face; the occasional bruise was sufficient for that. _He still likes me pretty._

She raised her chin and ignored her sneering fiancee as best she could. She lifted her eyes to address the Hound as was only proper and suddenly found her voice inadequate to the task. The Hound was expectant, but clearly on edge. His eyes were trained hard on her face and neck, his mangled features almost hypnotic in the way he honed in on her and seemed to strip her of all her protections with a single look. She shrank under his unbending, bestial scrutiny. It shattered her so much he stole her ability to think straight.

 _Just once more. Talk to me, girl,_ his memory echoed.

“Yes, of course,” she said softly, feeling foolish. The subtle heat of a rosy blush bloomed across her cheeks. The moment had arrived when she could finally say something to him, let her voice utter anything he might have desired her to, and all of a sudden every word that could potentially come out of her mouth seemed so inadequate. “Are you … ” she stammered, “Are you well?”

In his impenetrable way, he seemed stunned to hear something so simple leave her mouth. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, his tarnished armored boots scritching against the ground, and his face hardened into a contemptuous frown. He tossed a pointed glance at the scattered scene around them, the battle-worn remains of the last two moons of his life. “Aye, girl, I’m well enough. Toss some water over my head and I’ll be ready to greet Stannis when he arrives,” he growled.

Joffrey’s condescending smirk made the golden-haired King look less a lion and more a rat. “You will have to forgive my Lady, Hound. If possible, her illness has made her more dimwitted than ever before.”

The Hound grunted a response and dismissively turned away. Sansa was grateful that his inattention seemed to rub off on Joffrey, but she couldn’t help the inkling of disappointment that crept into her heart. The startling heat of it stung.

What had she expected? Naturally, it would be imprudent and potentially dangerous of him to show her any uncommon regard in the King’s presence, but …

Doubts plagued her. She questioned her memory of that night for the hundredth time, acutely aware it was more likely than not that she was remembering it wrong. Was she mistaken in thinking that she and the Hound had shared something? Sansa would hardly know what to call it. That night, the way she had thought things had played out, the emotion she thought she had seen from him when most would have thought him incapable. His characteristic meanness laced with mercy. Frustrated longing. Grief. Regret. And they had all been directed toward her.

To Sansa, the sum of those things remained ephemeral and undefinable, but she had thought there had been …

She released an inward sigh.

... something.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again need to be given to kickstand75 for her beta work on this chapter, and to those who left comments. You have no idea how much your words mean to me. <3
> 
> At this point, this is my only foray into the Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones arena, but I sincerely doubt it will be my last. These characters are much too close to my heart to let it be otherwise. So when inspiration strikes, I'll be back! I hope you guys will be too!

Night had fallen. Torches lit the sprawling city beneath the towers of the Red Keep, and Sansa stared out her windows. From where she stood it appeared that all was normal down below, but appearances were often deceiving. “A day, maybe two,” the Hound had reported before the Council. That would be the most they could expect before Stannis’ forces crossed the Blackwater Rush and the siege would begin. He had delayed them as long as he could. He only owed his early arrival to the fact that what little remained of his small force of fifty could ride much faster than Stannis’ twenty thousand could sail.

Outside, a baleful autumn wind foretold the changing season and was spurned by the fires of war. The fortunes of so many were caught in between. Despite the apparent calm, there were men hard at work strengthening the fortifications at the Mud Gate. Stockpiled arms would soon be distributed. People were storing away what they could and either preparing to defend their homes or taking refuge wherever they could find it. According to her forthright handmaiden, the taverns would also be full about now. The high class flesh merchants and whorehouses, too, would be taking in their fair share of coin tonight.

“There’s no need to be shy about it, my Lady. It is simply the way things are,” Shae had said, her experience showing when Sansa had blushed furiously at the thought. She had gone redder still when it crossed her mind that the Hound was likely among them. “Such are the doings of men on the eve of a battle. Whether it be from the bottom of a cup or from a woman, they take their pleasure and their comfort wherever they can find it. Think carefully before you deem their acts shameful, because it very well may turn out to be the last good feeling they ever have.”

She had taken Shae’s council with sincere attention and soon made up her mind not to act so much the part of the naive young maiden. She may not know a great deal about such matters, but she had been through enough in her short life not to allow herself to be so shocked by the things men did.

He was there, and he was alive. That was where her interest ended.

But beyond the grim tidings of war, there had been surprisingly little going on. At least where Sansa was concerned. The servants were all hard at work; she had dismissed Shae some time ago so that she could see to whatever needed to be done. The Lannisters were no doubt occupied in last minute preparations the same as everyone else, making certain they could hold on to their stolen kingdom. As the daughter of a traitor, a glorified hostage, and as a woman in general Sansa may as well have been one of the tapestries adorning the castle walls for all the use she was, meant to hang about and look pretty while everyone else saw to the real business at hand. She paced her rooms and wrung her hands, the temporary distraction of her needlework set aside long ago. She was anxious and tired of waiting for the moment when one of the Kingsguard would come to fetch her to be penned in with the queen and the rest of the women and children while men died outside.

With a decisiveness born of the moment, Sansa threw a wrap around her shoulders and left her chambers. She couldn't spend another second there, and in any case, it would be a while before anyone noticed the little bird had gone missing from her cage.

Balling her fists as she clutched the pale silk wrap to her chest, she lowered her eyes as she walked the torch-lined corridors. She veered into an adjacent corridor when Ser Meryn passed with Ser Mandon. The servants she avoided as well, though they seemed too busy to bother themselves with her. When spotted, Sansa merely lifted her chin and behaved as though she was doing exactly as she was meant to. No one questioned her.

When she reached the relative haven of the godswood, Sansa sat before the face of the weirwood tree on the same unforgiving, stone bench she had often graced before. It was peaceful there; the affairs of the world at large seemed so far away.

She was also grateful to find that Ser Dontos hadn’t sought her out tonight. His constant assurances of escape had long since grown cold. To his credit, though, he had appeared genuinely pleased to see that she had survived her illness. He had even given her a red aster. It had smelled so sweet. She smiled and thanked him, a demonstration of good graces befitting the circumstances. Yet the gesture had left her feeling empty.

It was a farce, this thing they did: the promise of a gallant knight helping her flee from her captors like one of Old Nan’s stories, the gift of a fall blossom for a daughter of winter. Dontos called himself her Florian, but he was more the fool than the knight. It was just a show with no real meaning.

The Hound would never have given her a flower.

Under blood red leaves fluttering restlessly in the cool breeze, she did as she should. In pious whispers she thanked the old gods for the Hound’s safe return and asked them to watch over him as he would soon ride again to battle. This afternoon he had shown himself to be the same angry brutish sort he had always been, and his attitude toward earlier had made it perfectly clear that he had put her and whatever happened that night behind him. But it was only right. She owed him this much, even if he didn’t care one whit about the gods or her.

Lately, it was only here she permitted her thoughts to dwell on her family and her lost home for any substantial amount of time. It was too painful, and if she was to bear up to Joffrey’s cruelties and the queen’s cutting remarks, she could not afford to lift her carefully laid veneer for anything. Most days it was all she could do to ignore the gaping maw in the pit of her stomach knowing she would likely never see the walls of Winterfell or her mother and brothers again. 

Refusing to give life to the tears behind her eyes, she offered up fervent prayers for their continued safety.  _Bran. Little Rickon. Jon Snow. Robb. Mother._ The caged bird would continue to sing for them until she could no more.

 _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ Her father’s words. But if that were the case, then why was she still here?

She was so alone.

She asked the question into wind to the shadow she knew must be lurking close by. His presence all around was undeniable. Who knew how many thresholds the Stranger haunted this night? But he would never answer, she knew that as well.

 _You took them away from me. My father, my sister. You left me alone and no one is coming for me,_ she thought, her grief gripping her by the throat. _I don’t understand._ She wasn’t strong enough for this. She was never half so strong as Arya, nor a quarter of the person her beloved father, Lord Eddard Stark, had been. _You have taken the wrong ones._

A dark glimmer of amusement at the shadow’s clear mistake bubble up beneath the surface, and she let out a bleak giggle, picturing her septa clearly in her head. Her hand fastened squarely over her heart in shock and the affronted oath, “Sacrilege!” She had begun to mock the gods now. Wouldn’t that make her mother and father proud?

Sansa was heartbroken. She was heartbroken and couldn’t feel it. She was bone weary of forcing herself to feel nothing, yet terrified the day would come when a river of suppressed anguish would burst the dam and drown her in her own grief.

She wanted to go home. She wished she still believed in knights and magic and fairytales. She wanted everything to go back to the way it had been before, when the world was beautiful and she was safe. If only she could go back.

Sensing her composure rapidly waning, Sansa hugged her arms about herself and settled back into her refined mask. It disturbed her at how easy it had become. It was similar to donning an old pair of slippers that were three sizes too small; suffocating and barely enough to keep her bound. But she had to go. Though it was not near long enough, she had stayed away as long as she dared. The lions would be looking for her soon.

She crept back through the hallways of the Keep and up the long serpentine staircase. There didn’t seem to be as many people about, making her journey a bit easier this time around. Still, she wasn’t lulled into complacency. Sansa kept a wary eye on the path ahead.

Lady Stokeworth’s ladies’ maid passed with a small curtsy. “Milady.” 

Sansa nodded politely and continued on, clutching her wrap ever tighter around her body.

She was nearing her chambers when she rounded a corner and spotted the forbidding silhouette of a knight sporting dark hair and a white cloak at a distance, stalking the corridor ahead. She immediately wheeled around and pasted her back to the wall, hoping she hadn’t been seen.

Had the queen already sent for her? Or did Joffrey want to make sure she had something to remember him by before he joined the battle?

She had only caught a glimpse, but she had recognized Ser Osmund Kettleblack, Ser Boros Blount’s recent replacement on the Kingsguard. Unlike his predecessor, who had been a rather squat individual whose best days were long past him, Ser Osmund was just reaching his prime. His size rivaled the Hound’s, falling short only by a few inches. Neither did he seem to take the same sort of delight in hurting her as Ser Boros had. However, as Sansa had previously found out, Ser Osmund had no objection to carrying out his orders either.

Following the most recent news of a Northern victory, a single one of his blows to her ribs had driven her to the edge of consciousness. When she had finally regained the ability to breathe, it had been all she could do to keep from emptying her stomach on the floor of the throne room. The rancid taste of bile crawled up her throat at the mere thought of that incident being repeated.

Her heart thundered beneath her breast as she heard his armored footsteps approaching. Thinking quickly, she flew back in the direction she had just come and ducked into an alcove at the end of the corridor, obscured by the overlapping architecture and the low light. Sansa squeezed herself into a space between the stone wall and the threshold almost too small for her to fit. Then she froze, biting her lip until it hurt and listening past the sound of her own blood rushing her ears for clomping footfalls. In no fit state for another brutal confrontation, a tear breached the cracks of her polished facade and streaked down her cheek.

Why couldn’t they leave her alone just for one night?

By the time Ser Osmund strode past with his palm casually laid on the hilt of his longsword, Sansa had gone as still as the grave. Her eyelids pinched shut as she willed her essence to marry itself to the castle walls and make her disappear. She followed the sound of his footsteps as he made a left at the end of hall and took the far staircase that led up to the queen’s chambers. She didn’t move for a while after he’d gone either. She wasn’t sure she could have moved if she’d wanted to. Her arms and legs seemed to have locked, conspiring together to become the nothing she had wished for. By the time she wiggled free of her hiding place, she was shaking.

Rushing would have only drawn unwanted attention if she met anyone else along the way, so Sansa traversed the remaining distance to her room as sedately as she could manage. She wiped another teardrop from her eye before it had the chance to slip free and took slow, measured breaths to calm the tiny tremors rippling through her hands.

Once in her chambers, Sansa wasted no time in allowing her wrap to droop and fall to the floor. The fire in the hearth and a trio of tapered candles on her bedside table cast her room in a lackluster ambience more resembling a wolf’s den rather than a lady’s chambers. The candles were sad little things, burned nearly down to the wick. Sansa vaguely realized she hadn’t thought to put them out before she left, but as distracted as she was, the issue flew out of her mind almost as quickly as it had come.

With fumbling fingers and almost manic determination, she reached behind her to the ties at the back of her bodice and tugged at the knot until it gave, intent on curling up in bed. She couldn’t reach to completely unlace herself, but if she could just loosen it … if she could just crawl under the covers and breathe …

“If I’d known this was the welcome I was to receive, I would have come sooner,” came a man’s harsh voice from the dimly lit far corner of the room.

Already primed to jump out of her skin, Sansa instinctively recoiled. She crashed into her bureau while backing away from the previously unnoticed figure, who’d taken up residence in the chair near her windows, the one she used to sew and read in.

A barking laugh filled the empty space between them. “Where are your manners, girl? Surely your Septa taught you it was polite to greet a man before you run from him.” He leaned forward, slow and cavalier, until his face caught the faint glow of candlelight. “Or is the King’s Dog unworthy of such niceties from a proper young lady?”

Braced against the bureau and puffing from the sudden fright, Sansa could hardly believe her eyes as she viewed the Hound, the shadow of his scars, and his permanently malformed smirk. Reason warned her not to trust him; he was a soldier pledged to the Lannisters and a member of Joffrey’s Kingsguard. Ser Osmund might not have been as alone as she’d believed. It was very possible the Hound was here to fetch her for some fresh humiliation of Joffrey’s. Meanwhile, a quieter, more rooted part of her only felt relief at the sight of him, felt safe enough to want to fall to her knees and dissolve into a weeping puddle as a long held dam threatened to break. 

Sansa carefully stepped away from the bureau. Her stomach fluttering with a new tension, she fussed with the material of her dress, patting and straightening it where the folds had been mussed, unsure what to do with her hands as the Hound’s dark gaze tracked her every movement. Embarrassment began to tint her complexion, realizing her laces still hung loose at her back, but there was nothing to be done about that now. It would be alright; they weren’t lax enough to allow anything to fall. So long as she was cautious it would remain that way.

The Hound stood up, apparently impatient waiting for her to master herself. Harried and unable to adequately focus, Sansa primly folded her hands in front of her and looked up. “To what … to what do I owe the honor of your visit this night?”

The Hound scoffed as his eyes briefly dipped down to sweep across her neck. “Some fucking honor.”

Sansa looked away and focused on the floor, abashed at his uncalled for use of language. Somehow in the time they’d been apart she had forgotten how abrasive he could be. “I only thought that you might be preparing for the battle.”

“I’m always prepared for a fight, girl. A bath, a meal, and a wineskin won’t change that any more than it will make me _more pleasant to look upon_.” He closed the short distance between them much faster than Sansa would have thought possible and wrenched her chin sharply upward. “Look at me.”

Sansa went rigid in his grasp, abruptly swallowed in his piercing gaze, all steel and scorn. She bit back a retort about how it was not his looks but his manner that caused her to turn from him. If he was determined to think her a shallow creature, he wouldn’t hear it no matter what she said.

But she wouldn’t make the mistake of looking away from him again. He hated it when she looked away.

The Hound studied her face with unscrupulous intensity, going over every blemish as he would a horse that was available for purchase. Though Sansa was mostly healed, the split in her lip entirely gone, the left side of face was still a yellowish hue with a few miniscule splotches of light green where Ser Boros’ fist had landed the hardest. And there was the Hound’s mark on her neck. She had been told it would fade with time, but would likely never disappear entirely. Sansa didn’t bemoan it. The diagonal slit greeted her every time she looked in the mirror, seeming to remind her that she could be as brave as the man who gave it to her, if only for one more day. She didn’t mind it, but it was clear the Hound did.

Wearing a look of apparent disgust, he released her chin with a rude shove of his fingers. “Not a good night to be wandering the castle on your own, little bird,” he growled. “Plenty of men, inside the Keep and out, looking for cunt, and they won’t much care where they find it. Won’t matter if it’s a scullery maid in dirty rags or a highborn maiden out for a stroll. Where have you been?”

“I was in the godswood.”

The undamaged corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Praying that Stannis will relieve your beloved King of his head, I’ll wager. I see His Grace hasn’t left you to while away your hours knitting.”

“No, he has not,” she said softly.

He looked again at the remnants of the bruise spanning her cheek, but she could see he was more preoccupied by the fading scar on her neck. A flash of that enigmatic something Sansa had missed upon their initial reunion appeared in his eyes. There it was, so subtle but alive within him, the pain of memory. Regret.

“It wasn’t so bad really,” she said. “Ser Boros does not hit as hard as Ser Meryn.” If it had been Ser Meryn, there was a strong possibility he would have broken Sansa’s cheekbone. A strange twist of humor brought a smile to her lips. “Perhaps when he returns, Ser Meryn can give him a few pointers on how to properly hit a woman.”

The Hound’s expression lifted, the tortured skin following the good into a quizzical smirk. “Bold words, girl. If a man suggested such to me, I’d hand him his tongue for his trouble. Got a knife hidden under your skirts, have you?”

He glanced at her with a look that suggested he wouldn’t mind checking for himself. Sansa’s cheeks warmed and blossomed into a rose colored blush, and he seemed exceptionally pleased at her reaction. “Thought not. Still ...”

He reached behind him in a familiar way that took her immediately back to that night, when the world had seemed to stop but for him and her. As he had before, he produced his dagger with the snarling dog inlaid into the hilt. This time, however, instead of holding her down and pressing it into her neck, he offered it to her. “Might be the King finds out one day that the little bird has grown teeth.”

Surprised, Sansa gaped. How could he tease her about such a thing? True, there had been a time—once—when she could have killed Joffrey, almost had. After watching her father get beheaded, she could have pushed Joffrey and gladly fallen with him, accepting death as her punishment for betraying her father to his executioners. She had since learned that death was not her punishment, living with the Lannisters was. Even so, the thought of plunging a knife into someone, even someone as vile and deserving as Joffrey, was almost too horrible to imagine.

All that blood.

She’d seen too much of it already.

It took Sansa a moment to respond. “I-I can’t.”

“Take it. Just in case,” he rasped. “War is coming. Might be you'll need it."

“But you …”

“I can get another before Baratheon arrives. In any case, I’ve no further use for this one.” He pushed the shining silver handle into her palm. 

Sansa’s arguments ceased when his insistence struck her. He could hardly look at it. As they held it between them, he glanced down at their hands and, almost as if it hurt to look, his eyes darted away and settled back on her. Could it be he didn’t want it anymore because it had been at her throat, because he knew exactly what it— what _he_ —had done to her?

She grasped for something to say. “So you mean to fight then?"

He seemed amused that she would even bother to ask. “I’m a dog, little bird. Killing is what I do.”

Sansa's fingers curled slightly around the hilt. _Not all._ It had been his cape to cover her when she was beaten and humiliated, and it had been his ruthless and scarred features she had seen coming to her rescue when the mob would have raped and killed her. It was him that had come to her in one of the lowest moments of her life, comforted her, and offered to release her from her pain though the consequences of doing so would have been heavy indeed. 

He was a killer, that much was true. She could not deny it. He had never claimed to be anything other than what he was. But for all he had done for her in the past, for what he had tried to do, he was also much more than that.

Sansa accepted it gratefully. She wouldn’t want to refuse him anything if it meant he might think she blamed him for hurting her. In her mind, he hadn’t hurt her at all. He had tried to save her from any further suffering, a noble act by any definition. This lewd, coarse, terrifying brute was a better man than all the knights in King’s Landing put together. "Thank you.” 

He made a dismissive grunt. “Always a proper lady, chirping your courtesies for everyone to hear.”

Sansa quietly turned to hide the dagger in one of her drawers. The knowledge that he believed she was only being polite needled her. Irked her even. He claimed she was a terrible liar, but would not accept the truth from her when he heard it. He was so frustrating. When the knife was safely tucked away beneath a pile of nightgowns, she turned to face him once again.

“I’m not, you know.”

Curious, the Hound tilted his head and casually stepped toward her. “Not what?”

With his attention so focused on her, her heart began to pound more furiously than it had in the corridor. His presence alone dominated hers. He had stopped a respectable distance from her, yet she already felt small next to him. His height outstripped hers by what seemed like leagues and his broad torso could surround two of her with ease. The desire to melt into his arms and let him shelter her was almost overwhelming, but her determination won out. “I’m not simply telling you what I think you want to hear. I meant it. More than you know.”

“Meant what?”

His penetrating eyes narrowed at her and, for an instant her courage fled. Memories of languishing in bed, gripped in the clutches of raging illness and not being able to call out to him when she needed him nearly leveled her. Wetness pearled in Sansa’s eyes, despite herself. “Thank you. I wanted to tell you that before you left that night. I tried, but I ... Thank you.”

The Hound went still as he took in what she had said. He looked struck, almost surprised that she could possibly have been sincere. Then, she observed as he visibly brushed it off and his mouth curled into a ponderous scowl. “I didn’t do anything that night to deserve anyone’s praise, leastways yours. Save your thanks for someone who's earned it.”

“I _have_ ,” she said, refusing to be swayed. “Ask me again. Ask me a hundred times if I’m not grateful for everything you’ve ever done for me, and I would tell you the same. Ask me anything you like and I’ll tell you the truth, I swear it, if only so you’ll accept my word and my thanks when it’s honestly given.”

“Anything I like?” The Hound rounded on her, the shift in his demeanor like a summer storm, swift, intense, and devastating. He was clearly intent on seizing the opportunity she’d given him. “I can ask any question I like, and you’ll drop this buggering nonsense your septa trained into you?”

“Yes.”

“Then, why me?” He pounced on the question like it had been at the forefront of his mind for all those weeks since they’d last seen each other. “Why me? Of all the bastards roaming the halls, why did you ask me?"

Sansa thought she had been prepared to respond to anything, but now she wasn't so sure. “You know why.”

Angry, he grabbed her arms. “Don’t play games with me, girl. I asked a question, I expect an answer. You look me in the face and answer me for true. You could’ve saved your pleases for someone else. That fucker Manden might have held out until your voice went. He would have enjoyed the sweet sound of you begging as long he could before he smothered you or strangled you. Or snapped that pretty little neck of yours.”

A massive shudder rolled down Sansa’s spine, but the Hound continued on, his voice growing more savage and sinister with every word. “Meryn would have been too interested in protecting his own skin, but Boros … You might have saved yourself a lot of pain, little bird. He might have done you the first night. Of course, he would have touched you first, lifted your skirts and jumped on you like a green boy with his first whore.”

“Stop,” she whispered. His hands had clamped down so hard she was sure there would bruises ringing her upper arms tomorrow, but he was so desperate he didn’t seem to notice.

“Why, little bird? Why me? What makes me so buggering special that I deserved the honor of snuffing you out?”

“You told me once that killing is the sweetest thing that there is.”

His jaw screwed tight. “Aye, that it is.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, “and I don’t think you believe it either.”

“Believe what you like, girl, it changes nothing. I am a monster, the same sort your septa warned you about in those little stories you used to love so much, and I _would_ have killed you that night.”

“I know.” Sansa looked straight into his eyes, those sad, lonely eyes, and she knew exactly how he felt. The emotions there mirrored her own, except her strength bent to soften where he was hard, to cool where he was blazing. “I don’t remember a lot of what happened while I was ill. I said things. Saw things that I couldn’t have seen.”

The Hound’s grasp yielded a little as he gulped and said quietly, “You were half mad.”

“But I remembered you,” she said. “Even when I didn’t know what else was real, I remembered you.” Sansa reached with her right hand to cover his. “You aren’t like them. I trusted you. I still do.”

The Hound grimaced. After a moment, he released a harsh breath and ran his left hand up her arm and over her shoulder to her neck. He found a lock of her auburn hair and slowly twirled it so it fell across her creamy skin instead of behind her. Then, touching her with the utmost tenderness, his hand found her skin and stroked along the curve of her neck. His thumb grazed solemnly over the pale pink scar he had made and down into the delicate hollow where her neck and the rest of her body met.

“If you were smart, little bird, you’d trust me least of all.”

He wanted her, Sansa knew that much. But more than that, his eyes spoke of a yearning for her that she scarcely understood. She knew it lived inside him like a dry tender ready to ignite and burn until the winter snows were long forgotten, the summer had blown to dust, and the stars disappeared from the sky. That kind of passion and ardor was beyond her. It was a mystery that might unfold for her one day, but for now the magnitude of it frightened her.

But she knew without a doubt he would never hurt her.

“I have been told many times of late that I’m not very smart.”

Sansa didn’t know what possessed her to do it. Perhaps it was the poignant ache deep down as she finally understood that someone cared, that she wasn’t completely alone. Perhaps it was to test her memories, to see if it still felt the same as she remembered, stretched and puckered but impossibly soft. Or maybe it was simply because she wanted to. But the next thing Sansa knew her hand was on the Hound’s marred cheek, light against the scarred flesh underneath.

A massive hand caught her wrist, poised and tense, but the Hound restrained himself. His gravel laden tone cut through his teeth. “Stop that.”

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

There was a weighty silence. “Not anymore.”

Sansa stroked her fingers ever so carefully across his skin. “You let me before. That night …” She was sure he had, more and more with every passing moment. It felt so familiar, so right.

He shook his head, his doubts about her, about everything, clouding his appearance. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Then, isn't it better that I do it now? So you can see that I know you, that I know myself, and I choose to touch you anyway?”

His eyes bespoke utter disbelief. “What happened to you, little bird?”

Sansa answered honestly. "I don’t know."

She didn’t know what had happened to her, what her encounter with the most feared and reviled of the Seven had done to change her. She would never have been so bold with the Hound before, yet …

Sansa inhaled long and deep. The way the Hound looked at her, the way he was leaning into the tips of her fingers, acquiescing to her touch and a brush of her palms across his face …

She was starting to like it.

Her fingers traveled up to sweep back some of the strands of his black hair. “I thought you were dead,” she confessed in a hushed murmur.

He nodded. “Aye, girl, I thought the same of you. Ravens were scarce, but we sometimes heard things from the Baratheon camp. I expected to hear any day that the Young Wolf had slit the Kingslayer’s throat.”

“It seems the Stranger wasn’t too keen to have either of us.”

His twisted grin made a faint appearance, and he tilted his head toward the windows and the city beyond. “Not as yet, anyway.”

Sansa smiled. “I thought you didn’t believe in the gods.”

He looked down at her, a strange sense of calm projected in his eyes. “I believe in death. Don’t need any gods to believe in that.”

And so Sansa found herself staring out her windows again that night, this time with the imposing Hound by her side. It was a bitter pill to Sansa thinking he would soon be in the thick of battle again, especially so soon after returning from the countless skirmishes he had waged on the approaching army all because of her.

 _He must be so tired_ , she thought, yet he had chosen to spend a portion of what were possibly his last hours with her. The significance of that warmed Sansa’s heart at the same time she felt it begin to crack.

They spent long moments without breathing a word. It was the Hound to finally break the silence. “I have to go, little bird. It wouldn’t do for me to be found here.”

He started to pull away from her and it hit her that he was leaving. 

She tried to ignore the ache that swiftly formed in the pit of her stomach at the idea of something happening to him. She was being silly. The Hound was a formidable warrior. The malice in his voice could make a grown man quake and, by his own admission, he loved to kill. Reveled in it. All of Westeros knew his fearsome reputation and his ability was questioned by none.

But what if he didn't weather this battle as he had all the others? What if he didn't return this time? What if he never came back?

Sansa fought back a plume of tears. "Will I see you again?” she asked.

“That’s a question better put to your tree gods," he said with an impudent huff. "Go and ask them, if you like.”

She snatched at his hand, not ready to let go. “Promise me you’ll return.”

The Hound turned and regarded her once again as if she were a foolish child. “And what good would that do? We’re outnumbered here, girl. Might be the Stranger will have us all before the battle’s done.”

“Promise me.”

“Little bird …”

Sansa shook her head. “Promise.”

“Stubborn,” he said. “Just like your father. He didn’t know when to quit either.”

His comment stung, but Sansa held her ground. He was not going to bully her from this. “Say whatever else you must, but I would have your promise. I cannot … I _will not_ permit you to go until you’ve done me this favor.” With ice in her Tully blue eyes and a wolf howling in her veins, she dared him to deny her. 

The Hound released an impatient sigh and eyed the door to her chambers.

“Please, ser,” Sansa blurted out desperately, sensing he was about to brush her off. She didn’t know why she’d chosen those particular words, but they were all that she needed to stop him cold. Her voice shrank to a pleading whisper. “Please … I need to know you will come back. I need your promise that you won't leave me alone in this place. Please.”

Sansa passively waited for the usual angry retort he gave when courtly manners took over and she called him ser. But instead of shaking his hand free and walking out, he stayed.

A giant in the darkness, he stood over her. An arm as thick as a tree trunk curled around her waist and pulled her close, his features dark and inscrutable, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. A hand reached up to gently cup the side of her face.

He leaned and pressed his lips to her cheek.

Sansa closed her eyes, carried away in the fleeting sensation of the tender caress, and being surrounded by his body.

Then he whispered in her ear, his hot breath tickling her neck. He smirked one last time and left.

Sansa watched him go and smiled.

If the Stranger waited for him, he would have to wait a little bit longer, for the Hound had left her with a promise in his kiss, if not one in words.

His whispered growl echoed in her ears.

“I’m no fucking ser, Little Bird.”

 

.

fin


End file.
